The Miracle you’ve longed to see [poem]
Even though our (G.U.Inter)faces (more or less)
portray the same allotted format every day
[despite the fact that most of what we think
we are is nothing more than empty space,
yet doesn’t fall apart into another face!],
a large amount of secret changes happen there
(what we can call the realful cellsome underplay).
But let’s not put ourselves in stark denial,
hiding from the looking-glass’s awkward truth.
The telling time is coming all-too soon when,
looking in that hostile mirror at our eyes,
we’ll not escape that transformation comes
and instantaneously realise (with laughter,
dread or resignation, sighs, or shock, deflation)
that time {in all its retro raw unglory} f l I e s.
One thing that we can patently exclaim:
Nothing in this cosmos stays the same
Always movement — always changing;
never such a thing as standing still.
If we slow our marching minds down,
then we’ll see the climb we think we face
is just a radar blip upon a phantom hill.
The snowy ice creeps further out to sea
(or back again, depending on the climate
changes normal in a world of fluctuation,
never steeped in fossilised stagnation),
while fat-bellied birds [which flourished once as
dinosaurs] move silently through ghostly trees
& rocks, & mountains keep their pointy shape
unless we live so long we see the earth’s crust
ravaged, wasted, systematikilly raped.
When faced with all such gory vain insane unglory
as that last line in the second verse has signified,
then souls aflame, being withered down by grief,
will grasp at any feather in the wind and long for
closure here & wish to be in any other “there”.
1ce, you whispered 2 me: “Oh, if only I’d B shown
some wild and extra-ordinary thing to blow me
clean away that then would prove to me
the existence of some undeniable divinity”.
So here it is, my seriously doubting friend:
YOU are the miracle you’ve longed to see!
Understand this and you’ll have the key;
but to do all that, you must first be free
of preconceptions which you think are there,
gathered over years of being a functionaire.
Suspended in this false and overlapped reality,
we lack the reverential and unclouded eyes
we need to go beyond these artificial skies
which feed us with a view which is — for all
it’s great pretence @ being otherwise — untrue.
Yes, (almost) everything is fake and is a lie;
and only when you’ve seen that glaring fact
without its clothes, then you will have
the answers to your many questions why.
[I say “almost” above just so you won’t be
clean knocked off the fragile seat which
furnishes your rear end with its balustrade.
The real word is “all”!]. But now I need you to
believe me, for I weave these silken themes
to make this dream we coin as “life” a palatable
meal upon a platter which the hand must drop
to let it splatter to the floor {that’s what it’s for}.
Within that fallen mess (I’m sure you will agree)
is the miracle of you you’ve always longed to see.
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© Alan Morrison, 2017
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The Naked Troubadour 